


the inbetween

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fights, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Miscommunication, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras tells himself that this will be good, if he follows through with the simple plan it’ll finally send his parents over the edge. He’s bringing Grantaire instead of Combeferre to the gala for a reason--mostly because they’ve only been platonic, they figured out that early enough-- but, while Combeferre definitely <i>isn’t</i> every mother’s worst nightmare, Grantaire is at least close to that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the inbetween

**Author's Note:**

> prompt from [this](http://klainewinchesters.tumblr.com/post/83954665108) tumblr post  
> i hope you enjoy it!  
> title is from richard siken's the dislocated room  
> warnings: drinking, smoking, violence, graphic description of injuries, sexual explicit contect  
> also enjolras is 18/19 and grantaire is like mid-twenties maybe 24 or smth but the age gap is sort of large if that creeps you out then this probably isn't for you  
> based off of the song 18 by anarbor

Enjolras tells himself that this will be good, if he follows through with the simple plan it’ll finally send his parents over the edge. He’s bringing Grantaire instead of Combeferre to the gala for a reason--mostly because they’ve only been platonic, they figured out that early enough-- but, while Combeferre definitely _isn’t_ every mother’s worst nightmare, Grantaire is at least close to that.

A breeze gives him shivers as a voice makes itself heard. “Jesus fuck, it’s below freezing out here, why aren’t you wearing a coat?” Enjolras’s head snaps toward the speaker, and _oh_. It’s Grantaire, with his dark, messy hair pulled back from his face in a loose bun. Grantaire ducks his head, taking off his jacket--which is _leather_ \--and hooking it over Enjolras’s shoulders.

Instead of protesting, Enjolras just draws the warm jacket further over his button up. It’s too big for him, hanging loosely off his frame, but he does notice the way Grantaire’s eyes catch on him.

“Thanks for doing this,” Enjolras starts. “You didn’t have to, you know.” Grantaire rolls his eyes, though his mouth turns up into a smile.

“How could I say no to you?” Grantaire replies dryly, crossing his arms. The tight material of his shirt catches over his arms, thick with muscle from boxing and lined with tattoos. Enjolras snaps his gaze back to Grantaire’s face, blushing when he notices that he’s been caught staring. “Are we going inside?”

Enjolras steps towards the door, not yet reaching to open it. He says, “I’m just going to warn you, when my parents see us, they’re going to be pissed.”

“You’re not a minor, they can fuck off,” Grantaire states, shrugging. “That was your plan anyway, right?” Enjolras nods, but he’s still hesitating, eyes flicking from Grantaire to the doorknob.

“They’re also--” Enjolras breaks off, huffing with frustration. Words have always come easy to him, this shouldn’t be so hard to say. “My mother isn’t going to be easily persuaded, and she’s probably not going to believe your whole--” Enjolras makes a vague hand gesture at Grantaire.

Grantaire grins, saying, “Aren’t rich boys like you supposed to be telling their boyfriend’s to behave?” He steps forward, opening the door and moving aside to let Enjolras in first. Except, he’s standing there, blushing slightly, his mouth parted. “Jesus, calm down, there’s no need to be having an internal crisis over your privilege on your porch. It was a joke.”

With a look at Grantaire, Enjolras closes his mouth, walking inside his own home with a formality that’s vaguely uncomfortable, but familiar. As soon as he sees his parents, Enjolras reaches towards Grantaire, lacing their fingers together.

“Julien, dear?” His mother is making her way over here, her eyebrows shooting up. “I wasn’t aware you’d be bringing someone. I don’t think we’ve met,” she says to Grantaire. “I’m Natalia, Julien’s mother.” Her nose is turned up, eyes tracing over Grantaire’s messy hair to the tattoos to the paint-stained jeans. She holds out her hand, palm turned down. “And you are?”

Grantaire looks at the hand but makes no move to shake it. Enjolras cuts in. “This is Grantaire, my boyfriend.”

Natalia breathes in deeply, dropping her outstretched hand and letting a fake smile light up her face. “Wonderful, we’re glad to have you. Why don’t you go say hello to your father, Julien? I’ll show Grantaire to the living room, where all the guests are.”

“Why can’t he stay with me?” Enjolras asks, already looking frustrated. It’s only been two minutes since he arrived, and a flush has already coloured his cheeks.

Natalia gives Enjolras a look and says, “I don’t think your father would like that, especially not tonight, with people from work here. You know how your father is.” Her smile is almost sympathetic, but it’s more of a warning than a comfort. “We can discuss you two together later, okay?”

“No,” Enjolras argues. He pulls his hand away from Grantaire’s, using it to run his fingers through his curls. “Just because he isn’t comfortable with this doesn’t mean that he can ignore it.”

People start to stare at the unfolding scene. Soon enough, Natalia’s husband comes up, resting his hand on her shoulder. His eyes linger on the jacket Enjolras is wearing, and Grantaire purposefully wraps an arm around Enjolras, his hand settling on his waist.

“Is there a problem?” he asks.

While Natalia quickly shakes her head no, Grantaire starts by saying, “Oh, no. Enjolras just thought he’d introduce me before we took some whiskey and headed back to my flat.” Grantaire pauses, smirking at the shock on the man’s face before continuing. “I’m your son’s boyfriend.” Again, another pause, just to let the statement sink in. “Now that we’ve been acquainted, care to show me to your liquor cabinet?”

Enjolras’s eyes are wide, his gaze going from his father to Grantaire every other second. His father clears his throat, sharing a look with Natalia before saying, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. This is a private event and while both of you are disrupting, my son has formal matters to attend to.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, perfectly playing the part, and walks to the door with Enjolras, a crowd of guests trailing behind him. Natalia is at the front of the group, shock clear on her face. Enjolras walks him to the beat-up car that Grantaire drives before hesitating.

Leaning in close, Grantaire whispers, “Do you really want to give them the satisfaction of not kissing me in front of all these privileged, homophobic, white old men, because--” Enjolras cuts him off, pressing his lips to Grantaire for a fraction of a second before pulling away. Grantaire’s hands come up to cup the base of Enjolras’s neck and he kisses him back, tongue sweeping across his bottom lip.

Enjolras shivers, pulls back to look Grantaire in the eyes before walking away, taking the leather jacket with him.

Later that night, at two in the morning, Grantaire wakes up to frantic pounding. He groans and gets up, stumbling through the dimly lit apartment, stubbing his toe on the edge of the counter, finally ending up at the door. The knocking has stopped, but Grantaire opens it anyway.

Standing in the hallway is Enjolras, fear still lingering in his eyes and his hair soaked from the rain. Grantaire is too sober for this, of course he is, but he’s also surprisingly thankful that he’s not shitfaced at the moment, given the situation.

This is the place where it begins. Outside of apartment 13, standing on the welcome mat. There's an end table just outside of the door. Purple and white flowers are in a tall vase, distracting the visitors from the rusting door hinges.

“Christ,” Grantaire breathes, his eyes searching for any injuries. Enjolras is shaking, though it’s hard to tell if that’s from the cold or something else. Grantaire steps aside, letting the younger boy into his apartment.

Enjolras stands by the door, dripping onto the carpet while Grantaire waits for him to explain. He has to take in a few deep breaths, cross his arms over his chest, and look down at the floor before he blurts it out. In a quiet, still-scared voice, he says, “We fought.”

“Did he hurt you?” That’s the first thing Grantaire asks. It’s at the top of his list of questions, so it seems like a good place to start. Grantaire clenches his fists waiting for an answer, holding his breath.

Enjolras hesitates, taking in a deep breath as he says, “I just need a place to stay for the night, that’s all.”

Grantaire just nods, his eyes taking in enjolras, lips pressed tightly together. “I’ll get you some clothes.” Enjolras lets his eyes wander around the apartment, taking in the ratty couch and the makeshift coffee table. Grantaire is back within a minute, handing the clothes over to Enjolras. “The bathroom is right down the hall, on the left.”

Enjolras takes the clothes and walks down the hallway to the bathroom, where he dresses hurriedly. In the mirror, he can see that there are dark circles under his eyes. The soft, dark blue shirt that Grantaire gave him hangs off one of his shoulders, and the gray sweatpants are barely clinging to his hips. He rolls them once and opens the door, quietly making his way to the kitchen, where he can hear Grantaire.

When Grantaire notices Enjolras in the doorway, with his wet ringlets and sleepy expression, he presses a cup of tea into his hands, knowing that it’ll help. Enjolras lets the drink warm his body, his fingers already becoming less cold.

Grantaire breaks the silence soon enough, his expression and tone unreadable. “What did you two fight about?” he asks, not looking up from his own mug.

Enjolras slumps against the counter, taking a drink before telling him. “It started with my sexuality and spiraled downwards from there. It’s not a big deal, most of the time.”

“Not a big deal?” Grantaire argues, clearly frustrated. His voice grows louder. “I think that fits the criteria for verbal abuse, Enjolras. You can’t stay there. What if he does end up hitting you, what will you do then? Are you just going to ignore it, say that it’s not a big deal?”

Enjolras sets down his cup, using his hands while he talks. “I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he retorts. A flush has crept over his face, like it always does when they fight, the anger that gets to him and ignites the fire in his eyes, the fury in his veins.

“So you’ll stay here,” Grantaire supplies. When Enjolras opens his mouth to interrupt, Grantaire cuts him off. “There’s not a lot of room, but it’s better than staying there.”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras says, because he knows that Grantaire is _right_ , he can’t stay there anymore. He crosses his arms, throwing a glance at the couch, and then yawns. Exhaustion overcomes him, and he asks, “Where are your blankets?”

Like Grantaire think that’s the funniest thing, he snorts a laugh, all anger faded away. In its place is a smile with crinkling eyes, and Grantaire says, “Jesus, no. You’re not sleeping on my couch. It’s uncomfortable as shit, you wouldn’t even be able to sleep.”

“Fine,” Enjolras says, with an air of confidence that he’s always had. He looks at Grantaire and states, “Then we’ll share the bed.” Enjolras turns, walking out of the kitchen and down the hall, and that’s when he realizes he doesn’t know which door leads to Grantaire’s room. So he waits, and when Grantaire joins him a few seconds later, he rests his hand lightly on Enjolras’s waist.

“Sorry for the mess,” Grantaire mutters as he opens the first door on the left. Inside, the room is dark, but Enjolras can make out the small bed and the bookshelves lining the wall. Enjolras walks into the room first, with Grantaire trailing behind him, a hand on the small of his back. Grantaire pulls back the blankets and slides in first, Enjolras following soon after.

Enjolras takes in a deep breath--smelling clean soap, laundry detergent, and something distinctly Grantaire. When he exhales, he says, “Thank you.” His voice is quiet, but it fills the corners of the dark room, his words stretching out and making themselves at home.

“No problem,” Grantaire replies, sleepily. The bed is too narrow for two bodies, so Enjolras is plastered against Grantaire’s side, head resting on his shoulder. Grantaire’s nose is pressed to Enjolras’s hair, breathing in the clean scent of his shampoo. Even though he’s _sharing a bed with Enjolras_ , Grantaire is too tired to be tense. He’ll freak out over this in the morning.

It comes too soon, really. He swears he closes his eyes just for a few seconds, and when they open again, he’s blinking sleepily at the sun peeking in through the crack of the curtains. Next to him, Enjolras is still asleep, lips slightly parted. His head is tucked in the crook of Grantaire’s neck and his arm is draped across Grantaire’s torso. Not that Grantaire is complaining.

Enjolras’s breath hitches just before he wakes. Instead of sitting up, looking at Grantaire with a dazed look, he burrows under the covers, moving closer to Grantaire. In the back of his throat, Enjolras makes a sleepy noise. His eyelashes flutter open, tickling Grantaire’s skin.

“Morning,” Grantaire says, amusement clear in his voice. Enjolras moves his limbs off Grantaire’s body. He’s blushing, looking up at Grantaire with an open expression that makes something ache behind Grantaire’s breastbone.

“Sorry,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes. Grantaire sits up and stretches, smiling down at Enjolras. His eyes follow the line of bare skin between the shirt and the sweats that Enjolras is wearing.

Grantaire clears his throat, shaking his head a bit before chewing on the inside of his cheek. Breaking out into a grin, Grantaire asks, “Frozen waffles or pancakes?”

“Either is fine,” Enjolras murmurs, his voice slightly muffled from where his head is burrowed in the pillow. Grantaire stands, stopping at the door to glance back at Enjolras, who has stretched out, limbs hanging off the edge of the bed languidly.

Enjolras sits up, figuring that Grantaire’s already in the kitchen, and stretches his arms over his head. Looking towards the door, he starts a little once he notices Grantaire is still standing there. At Grantaire’s fond smile, he scowls, which only makes Grantaire’s smile grow.

Grantaire runs his fingers through his hair, stepping out into the kitchen to pull the waffles out of the freezer. He sticks them in the toaster, leaning back against the counter to wait for them to pop up.

Enjolras, with his messy hair and twisted, oversized shirt, comes out to sit on one of the stools pushed up to the counter. He accepts the plate Grantaire pushes towards him, pouring syrup over the waffles. Just then, he realizes how hungry he’s been froom skipping dinner the night before.

They eat in silence, the only sound is their forks scraping against the bottom of their plates. Occasionally, Grantaire’s eyes will flick up to Enjolras, looking at him sitting in his kitchen, eating breakfast with him, and then he has to look back down because his heart hurts too much.

“Can I use your shower?” Enjolras asks, clearing his throat. “If I go home now, my mom will ask me too many questions and I can’t afford to be late to class again.”

“It’s okay,” Grantaire replies, lips turned up in a smile. “Towels are under the sink. The water will go cold if you take too long, so try to be quick.”

Enjolras nods and then he’s gone, walking into the bathroom. The shower he takes is quick, washing himself with a bar of soap that smells familiar, smells like Grantaire.

When he gets out, he has a towel wrapped around himself. Stepping out into the hallway, the cool air hits his skin and he almost doesn’t notice Grantaire’s gaze on him. Grantaire, who’d just been cleaning the dishes they used, looks over the towel slung dangerously low on Enjolras’s hips. Droplets of water are dripping onto Enjolras’s freckled shoulders and Grantaire’s mouth goes a little bit dry. Enjolras can, admittedly, feel his face flush, but he silently goes back into Grantaire’s bedroom to throw on the clothes he arrived in last night.

Making sure he has his phone, Enjolras is quick to leave, stopping at the door before he does. Grantaire’s right behind him, looking at Enjolras expectantly.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, everything about him sincere. He looks like he wants to do something else, but all his does is reach a hand out to touch Grantaire’s shoulder before turning and walking down the hallway.

Grantaire stands in the middle of the living room, stunned. Later, if he gets himself off in the shower to the image of Enjolras half-naked, nobody has to know.

*

Out of necessity, they form a routine. Late at night, Enjolras will show up on Grantaire’s doorstep, looking lost and angry. Grantaire will let him into his bed, making sure he has something for breakfast before sending him on his way again. And then, every Thursday afternoon when Enjolras holds the meeting, they’ll act like everything is normal, like none of this is happening.

Usually, Enjolras is too exhausted to talk about what happened. Sometimes, though, he lets it all out, and Grantaire will indulge himself in playing the devil’s advocate. Those nights usually end with Enjolras sleeping with a considerable amount of space between him and Grantaire.

A week or two later, Enjolras arrives the earliest he’s ever been. He doesn’t wait for Grantaire to come to the door, just walks in without knocking, sitting down next to Grantaire on the couch.

Grantaire puts his sketchbook away, turning to give Enjolras his full attention. Enjolras starts by saying, “My cousin is getting married tomorrow.” He pauses, meeting Grantaire’s focused gaze. “We got the invitation a month ago. My mother just told me today.”

“Is there any way you can get out of it?” Grantaire asks. When Enjolras doesn’t answer, he continues, “Do you even _want_ to get out of it? If I go with you, I doubt they’d make a scene in front of your whole family. What happened at your dad’s thing was enough to last them a few more months.”

“I want to go,” Enjolras tells him. “She and I were close, and I want to be there for her, but I also don’t want to give my parents the satisfaction of knowing that their words get to me.”

“But they do get to you, don’t they?” Grantaire asks, his voice quiet. Enjolras stays silent, dropping his eyes to the soft fabric of the couch. Grantaire sighs, standing up and holding out his hand for Enjolras to take. “I’ll go with you, but don’t expect me to wear a suit.” His smile is strained until Enjolras grabs his hand and lets Grantaire lead him to the bedroom.

In the morning, Enjolras leaves with just enough time to get ready. He texts Grantaire directions and soon enough, Grantaire is coming through the doors of the reception while dinner is being taken away, and he finds Enjolras sitting at a little table in the back, sipping at champagne.

He ducks his head as he approaches him, kissing Enjolras on the cheek before taking his seat. Enjolras is staring at him, eyes traveling over the black fabric of Grantaire’s suit, stretched tightly over his shoulders, clinging to his legs.

Enjolras runs his tongue over his lips, finding his mouth surprisingly dry. Arching an eyebrow, he asks, “I thought you weren’t going to wear one?”

“Changed my mind,” he answers, shrugging as he steals a drink from Enjolras’s glass. “I wear it for work, mostly. Stuck up, rich snobs tend to buy more of your art when you don’t look homeless,” Grantaire tells him.

The couple has their first dance, pictures are taken, bouquets are thrown, and Enjolras drains three more glasses of champagne. Now, he has a flush coloring his cheeks, and he’s scowling at Grantaire, for no reason at all.

Things start to look up. Enjolras’s parents ignore them the whole night, only throwing glares in their direction. A slow, sad song that might be a little hopeful starts to play, and Enjolras stands, looking down at Grantaire. “Dance with me,” he says, entwining his and Grantaire’s fingers before he even has the chance to protest.

The lights are dim, so no one notices when Enjolras wraps his arms around Grantaire’s neck. “This isn’t so bad, is it?” Grantaire asks, trying to go for casual instead of worried and anxious.

“Much better than coming alone,” Enjolras agrees, the statement quiet. On a whim, Grantaire rests his forehead on Enjolras’s, eyes fluttering shut as they sway to the music.

Once the song comes to an end, Enjolras steps away and walks towards the doors, throwing a glance at Grantaire before heading outside. Grantaire follows, because there’s nothing else to do, and meets Enjolras in the garden.

Grantaire lights a cigarette and takes a drag out of it, looking over the small pond with Enjolras. They’re quiet for a while, long enough for Grantaire to finish the cigarette and put it out, and then Enjolras turns to Grantaire.

Enjolras licks his lips, and that’s when Grantaire finally notices how close they’re standing. Grantaire can see the smattering of freckles across Enjolras’s nose, can see each and every one of his eyelashes. Looking like he’s decided on something, Enjolras drops his gaze to Grantaire’s mouth, and then they’re kissing.

It starts out chaste enough, just a firm press of lips. Then, Enjolras’s tongue swipes across Grantaire’s bottom lip, and Grantaire lets him in. Enjolras kisses exactly how he does everything else--with a certain fervor, like this is the one thing he’s focused on.

The kiss is a little bit messy, just enough to remind Grantaire that Enjolras is tipsy, half on his way to being drunk, and that he should probably stop this, but Enjolras gasps, and Grantaire’s self control does fuck all.

Enjolras presses closer, his hand curled tightly in the fabric covering Grantaire’s arm. Grantaire nips at Enjolras’s lips, tangles his fingers in messy blond hair, and swallows the soft noise that comes out of Enjolras’s mouth.

When Enjolras pulls back, his lips are bitten red and his cheeks are colored pink with a flush. His voice, albeit a little breathy, is firm as he says, “I’ve been wanting to do that again for a while.”

Grantaire lets out a breath, mutters, “Christ,” and then runs his finger through his hair. “Come home with me, just so I can make sure you’re okay in the morning.” Enjolras nods, back to scowling, as he lets Grantaire take his hand and walk him to the car.

Back at the apartment, Enjolras refuses all help walking up the stairs. He then fumbles with the tie at his neck, giving in and letting Grantaire take it off. He huffs once Grantaire starts to unbutton his dress shirt, but relents, allowing Grantaire to take that off, too.

Grantaire, while walking into the kitchen, strips off his own tie, as well as the suit jacket and dress shirt underneath. He fills up a glass with water from the sink, handing it to Enjolras.

“I didn’t drink _that_ much, R,” Enjolras argues, glaring at the older man, who just looks amused.

“Drink the water and stop acting like a petulant child,” says Grantaire, not unkindly. The corners of his lips are turned up into a smile, and he looks like he’s holding back a laugh. Enjolras drains the glass, pointedly. He steps forward, pressing his lips to Grantaire’s, hands shifting to rest on the back on Grantaire’s neck, pulling him closer.

They kiss, and everything they’ve been holding back for the past few weeks surfaces. Unlike in the garden, they’re alone here, and when Grantaire pressed his fingers to the warm expanse of skin under Enjolras’s shirt, they’re branding his skin, hot to the touch.

Enjolras breaks the kiss, pulling back to say, “Grantaire,” his voice just a whisper. Grantaire nods, brushing a strands of hair out of Enjolras’s face before taking his hand in his own, footsteps light as they make their way down the hall.

As soon as he lays down, Enjolras falls asleep, with his head tucked in the crook of Grantaire’s neck. His arms snake around to Grantaire’s sides, fitting the curve of himself to Grantaire.

“Goodnight, Enjolras,” Grantaire whispers into the darkness, but his words are left unanswered. Instead of worrying, he lets sleep take him.

Enjolras startles awake with a headache lingering in the corner of his mind. He sits up, looking down at Grantaire wearing a peaceful, sated expression. Sighing, he runs a hand over his face as he goes over the details of last night.

All at once, it comes flooding back to him. Dancing with Grantaire, kissing him, kissing him _again_. Grantaire probably hates him now, this was a professional arrangement and now he’s gone and ruined it by getting his feelings in the way. God, he’s never drinking again.

Quietly, he gets out of bed, pulling on his slacks and the wrinkled dress shirt. He slips the unraveled tie into his backpocket and toes on his shoes, making sure to grab his phone before he leaves. He shuts the door behind him with a small thud and walks out of Grantaire’s apartment.

Grantaire, on the other hand, doesn’t wake up until hours later. When he notices that he’s alone, his heart sinks, and the disappointment slams into him. He shuffles into the kitchen to make himself some coffee, hoping that it’ll wake him up enough to deal with this.

The thing about coffee is that while it does wake Grantaire up, it makes his hyper-aware of the situation. He needs distraction, he needs something to take his mind off the way Enjolras pressed closer to him last night, eyes glazed over from the alcohol.

Without thinking, Grantaire grabs the sketchbook sitting on the table, reaches for one of his pencils that have littered the counter. Then, he draws. Everything from Enjolras just before he kissed him to Enjolras scowling down at him.

It’s not the first time that Enjolras has been his muse, but it has been a while. Before, Grantaire’s always been drunk when he decided to sketch or paint the boy, but right now, he’s depressingly sober.

Hours pass by and Grantaire barely notices when a text comes in on his phone, one from Joly, asking where he is and why he’s not at the meeting. It’s not that Grantaire purposely lost himself in sketching so he’d miss the meeting, but he’s almost glad he did.

Grantaire texts back something along the lines of _busy today--make sure someone argues w/ enjolras for me_. Joly texts back an affirmative and a smile, along with several exclamation points.

That night, when the knocking at his door is Eponine with a case of beer and not Enjolras, he doesn’t have it in him to be surprised.

“Two choices,” Eponine states when Grantaire lets her into his apartment. “Either we drink and eat those pastries from the bakery shop you love while watching a movie, forgetting everything that has happened, or we drink and cuddle and I’ll pretend you aren’t crying.” She sets the case of beer down on the counter, turning to Grantaire with an expectant look on her face.

“I can’t have both?” Grantaire suggests, a thankful smile appearing on his face. Eponine doesn’t comment on how it looks more like a grimace.

Eponine shakes her head, putting her hands on her hips, “Nope. That’s what you get for skipping the meeting today.” She turns around, opening the case full of beer while saying, “I can’t believe you left me to fend for myself, R. Marius brought Cosette this week, and she’s wonderful, and lovely, and beautiful, and I can’t find it in myself to hate her.” She pauses, holding out a beer to Grantaire. “So. What’s it gonna be?”

“You can pick the movie,” Grantaire tells her, taking the can and turning to go sit on his couch.

The reason Grantaire loves Eponine is because even though she said he can’t have both, she holds him later and lets him cry, saying something about taking advantage of him while she whispers soothing words into his ear.

*

Enjolras avoids him for two days. Grantaire doesn’t mind, really, he knew it was coming. But then, sometime around dinner on the third day, while Grantaire is waiting for his takeout, there’s knocking at his door. He assumes it’s just the delivery guy.

When he opens the door, there’s Enjolras, his eyes downcast with a bruise high on his cheekbone. Matching bruises on his knuckles. A bloody nose.

“Christ Jesus,” Grantaire hisses, pulling Enjolras inside. He looks him over, searching for any other injuries. “What the hell happened to you?”

Enjolras doesn’t meet his eyes, instead choosing to glare at the coffee pot. He crosses his arms, wincing when the material of his shirt comes into contact with his knuckles. “I threw the first punch. It wasn’t his fault.”

Grantaire takes a step back, shutting his eyes tightly as he pinches the bridge of his nose. He pulls a stool back from the counter, giving enough room for Enjolras to take his seat. “Sit down,” he tells him, pointing to the stool. “Try not to get blood on the carpet.”

Enjolras follows orders, albeit reluctantly and with a roll of his eyes. Grantaire disappears into the bathroom, returning in just a few seconds with a small first aid kit.

“Give me your hands,” Grantaire says, waiting for Enjolras to hold his arm out. Grantaire takes the fingers gently, wiping away the blood that has collected in the creases. Once the knuckles are looked at, Grantaire dabs an antiseptic wipe at Enjolras’s nose, careful of the stinging sensation that will come in just a second. Enjolras jerks his head back, and Grantaire gives him a look. “Stay still.” Enjolras only flinches minutely as Grantaire wipes the rest of the blood away.

Grantaire’s fingers skirt over the bruise on Enjolras’s cheekbone, choosing to leave it be and heal naturally. He sighs, leaning against the counter as he fixes his gaze on Enjolras.

“Ready to talk about what happened?” Grantaire asks him, eyebrows raised in expectation. In Enjolras’s eyes, Grantaire sees defiance and lingering fear. His stomach does a flip, knowing what Enjolras just went through.

“Mother brought up you, and my sexuality, and how he’s going to have to deal with it someday, and he just--snapped. He said, ‘no son of mine is going to be a queer,’ and that’s when I hit him,” Enjolras explains, his voice unexpectedly quiet.

Grantaire releases the breath his was holding in a long, slow exhale. He mutters, “Shit,” and then lets his eyes slip closed. When he opens them again, he looks at Enjolras and says, “You’ve always been quick to anger. Maybe that’s where you got it from.”

“I’m not my father,” Enjolras retorts, voice growing louder. “No matter what, I won’t be like him.”

“I _know_ , Enjolras. God, this is all my fault. If I didn’t show up at that fucking--” Grantaire starts, but he’s cut off by the knocking on his door. He answers it, bringing in the Thai and setting it on the counter. “Hungry? You could probably use some takeout and shitty tv shows. That was definitely enough seriousness for tonight.”

Enjolras joins Grantaire on the couch, watching some reality show while he shares food with Grantaire. If he doesn’t move his fingers too much and tries to keep his facial expression neutral, he can almost forget about what happened earlier.

Grantaire makes Enjolras drink a glass of water and take some painkillers before bed, claiming that his headache in the morning is going to be hell and he’ll probably want to reduce it as much as possible. “I can give you some room in the bed tonight, I’ve slept on the couch plenty of times before.”

“I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed, Grantaire,” Enjolras chides, looking at him over his glass. He sets the cup down on the counter, turning his full attention to the older man standing under fluorescent light. “Why weren’t you at the meeting?” he asks, his voice cautious, almost hesitant.  

“I was busy with work,” Grantaire lies easily. He's learned to do that, ever since junior year of high school, when his favorite teacher asked him if something was wrong. “I’ve got a new commision coming in, something that’ll take up a lot of time for the next few weeks. It’d be easier if they requested a mural, really, since this thing has to be so detailed--”

Enjolras interrupts Grantaire’s rambling. “I’m sorry for--if I made you uncomfortable. The other night. I just want to make that clear,” he says, surprisingly confident. “I didn’t mean to cross any lines or whatever it is I may have done. I know that our agreement is strictly professional, and I--”

“It’s okay,” Grantaire tells him. “Though you didn’t make me uncomfortable. I thought it was the other way around, actually. You weren’t yourself, and I should have stopped it when I had the chance, before you had done that--something you clearly regret. It’s my fault, and I’m sorry.”

“What? No,” Enjolras replies, confusion coloring his tone. His vision blurs for a moment. “You didn’t do anything. I’m the one who kissed you. Twice.”

“I’m the one who let you--” Grantaire starts, but then Enjolras sways on his feet, and that really can’t be good. “Enjolras?”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras answers, clutching the counter.

“I think you have a concussion,” Grantaire says slowly, eyebrows furrowed. “Should I call Combeferre?”

“No, he’ll just,” says Enjolras, head still spinning. “He’ll worry himself sick. Let’s just go to bed?”

Grantaire nods, agreeing with, “That’s a good idea. We’ll see how you feel in the morning.” He pauses, looking at Enjolras worriedly. “Are you sure we shouldn’t call Combeferre? What if you need to go to the emergency room?”

“No, no emergency rooms. I just want to sleep it off,” Enjolras argues, turning around to walk to Grantaire’s bedroom. Grantaire follows closely behind, watching as Enjolras strips off his shirt and his jeans, climbing into bed in just his boxers.

Grantaire joins, laying flat on his back like Enjolras, head turned to look at the boy. Enjolras has his eyes shut, but he can feel Grantaire’s gaze on him.

There’s normalcy here that Grantaire has been craving for the past few days. Grantaire has had trouble falling asleep without a small, lanky body fit beside him.

“R,” Enjolras whispers, eyes still closed. He turns his head, opening his eyes to find them settling on Grantaire’s. “Thank you.”

“Go to sleep, Enjolras,” Grantaire whispers back, only letting sleep claim him once Enjolras has his eyes closed again.

When the bright sun peeks through the curtains, shining directly on Grantaire’s face, it takes all he has not to throw an arm over his eyes and groan. He’s too busy reveling in the fact that Enjolras is once again pressed to Grantaire’s side, clinging to him tightly. They gravitate towards each other in the middle of the night, it seems.

The covers are pulled up to Enjolras’s waist, so Grantaire can see his smooth, alabaster chest, the way his ribs poke out of his skin like maybe sometimes he forgets his meals. Enjolras’s eyelashes, turned white blonde in the morning light, flutter open as he wakes, settling on Grantaire.

His hand comes up to his bruised cheekbone, pressing lightly as he winces. He then studies his own hand, focusing on the blue and purple knuckles. He asks, “It’s not too bad, is it?” His voice is cautious.

“It’ll heal up quickly. A few days at the most,” Grantaire answers, running a hand over his face. He sits up, looking down at Enjolras once again, how the bruises bloom on his cheekbone like violets. “I think we should tell Combeferre,” he says, pulling back the bedspread to stand. He runs his fingers through his matted hair, quickly pulling off his shirt before tugging on a new one.

Enjolras is quiet for a minute. “He’ll just tell me that I shouldn’t live there anymore,” he finally says, picking at a loose string on the comforter. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard from you before. There’s nothing I can do anyway; they’re paying for my tuition. I can’t risk it.”

“He beat you,” Grantaire argues, clearly frustrated.

“I hit him first,” retorts Enjolras, equally angry. Grantaire huffs, spinning on his heel and walking out of the room. Enjolras finds him in the kitchen, cracking eggs and scrambling them in a pan. “What am I supposed to do, Grantaire? Find my own place, get a job?”

“That’s what Feuilly did,” Grantaire says. “I told you that there’s enough room here. It’s not like you don’t spend every other night in my bed anyway.”

Enjolras responds with, “That’s different.”

“How? Either way, you’re getting away from him,” Grantaire replies, voice still as loud and as angry as it was minutes ago.

“When I come here I’m just escaping, just for a little while. It’s not permanent,” Enjolras states. He crosses his arms, his stature growing defensive.

Grantaire huffs out a harsh laugh. “I know that, believe me.” He puts the eggs onto a plate, pushing it towards Enjolras sitting on the stool. “You can’t stay there. Not while he’s hitting you--”

“I _provoke_ him, Grantaire, that’s what this is all about,” Enjolras contends after a mouthful of eggs. “I’m not trying to get kicked out, I’m just, I don’t know--standing up for myself. Something you wouldn’t know anything about.”

Then, all at once, the anger dissipates. “God, I forgot how cruel you could be,” Grantaire mutters. His voice stays low and soft as he says, “I can’t stand by and watch you get hurt over and over again. I can’t do it, especially when I know that it’s my fault, that I can stop it--”

“It’s not your fault,” Enjolras insists. “Grantaire, it’s not your fault,” he repeats, knowing that there’s a good chance Grantaire doesn’t believe him. “This was all my idea, not yours. I asked for your help.”

“I should have said no. Look where it got you, with a bloody nose and a bruise as big as a fist. Fuck,” Grantaire sighs. “He can’t hurt you again.”

Anger bubbles up in Enjolras once again. “It doesn’t matter what I do, he’s always going to be like this. He’s always going to be a homophobic asshole, so it doesn’t matter.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “Why do you care so much, anyway? I’m not your responsibility.”

“Isn’t it obvious? I want you to be my responsibility, Enjolras, I want to be able to take care of you,” Grantaire answers. All of his self control has flown out the window. “Everyone knows that I’m hopelessly in love with you, I can’t believe you haven’t figured it out by now.”

Enjolras opens his mouth, closes it, and then leans forward to press his lips to Grantaire’s. Grantaire, of course, is startled, but when Enjolras kisses him he can’t do much of anything except stay standing and kiss back. So, that’s what he does, just lets the kiss progress until Enjolras is pulling back, eyes wide as he breathes into Grantaire’s mouth, “You’re in love with me.”

“I thought that was common knowledge,” Grantaire answers before connecting their mouths again, kissing Enjolras until he’s certain to get any closer he’ll have to climb up onto the stool with him.

Grantaire is careful of the bruise on Enjolras’s face, but other than that, his fingers dig into everywhere he touches. Enjolras’s arm, his hips, tangled into his hair. He’s a drowning man searching for air, and that’s found when he kisses Enjolras, lets his tongue slide against the other’s, slick and warm and sending a shiver down his spine.

Enjolras is clad in only boxers and Grantaire is so, so very thankful for that. He runs his hands up and down his chest, thumbing over his nipples solely for the way is makes Enjolras whine. When Grantaire bites down on Enjolras’s lip, a soft sound escapes his mouth, and it goes straight to Grantaire’s cock.

“How far do you want this to go, Enjolras, you have to tell me--” Grantaire asks in between frantic, desperate kisses.

Enjolras pulls back, licking his lips a little as he says, “Take me to your room, I want this to be on our bed,” and if Enjolras referring to Grantaire’s bed as _theirs_ makes something clench painfully in Grantaire’s chest, well, it was just a matter of time.

Grantaire clasps his hand tightly around Enjolras’s as he leads him down the hallway, throwing back glances that convey all the nervousness and lust Grantaire is feeling. Inside his room, Enjolras kisses Grantaire again, this time softly, tugging at the hem of Grantaire’s shirt. Grantaire pulls it off, dropping it on the ground before going to back to memorizing the contours of Enjolras’s mouth.

Enjolras backs them towards the bed, letting Grantaire sit down before he straddles him, pressing little open-mouthed kisses to his neck. His fingers are skirting over Grantaire’s broad shoulders, the muscle of his arms, before they stop at his waist, palming him through his sweats.

“Can I suck you off?” Enjolras asks, nuzzling the crook of Grantaire’s neck. “Please, R, let me suck your cock.”

“Shit, fuck, of course you can,” Grantaire answers, his head thrown back as Enjolras gets off of him and drops to his knees. He’s quick in getting Grantaire’s sweats off, tugging his boxers down with them.

The sight of Grantaire’s cock flushed red and hard is enough to make him whine, so he does. He gives the underside broad licks before wrapping his lips around the head, sucking a little and taking pleasure in the way Grantaire groans. Grantaire’s fingers come to rest in Enjolras’s hair, tangling a bit.

Enjolras takes more of him into his mouth, using his hands on what he can’t. He hollows his cheeks, letting his tongue flick over the slit of Grantaire’s cock. Grantaire’s hips give little thrusts as he moans, fingers tightening in blond curls.

When Enjolras pulls off, Grantaire’s quick in pulling his pants off all the way. Enjolras takes his place on the bed, hair spread out in a fan on the pillow. His pupils are blown wide with lust and his cheeks are flushed, the image making Grantaire let out another groan before hovering over him.

“Jesus fuck, you’re beautiful,” Grantaire murmurs, slotting their mouths together. He kisses Enjolras hard, letting every ounce of reverence, of lust, of love show in that one action. He lets his fingers slip into the waistband of Enjolras’s boxers, tugging them off and then tossing them towards the floor.

“Touch me, touch me, _please_ , Grantaire,” Enjolras says, a mantra of his pleads. Grantaire thrusts his hips, his clock sliding along Enjolras’s. Finally, Enjolras moans, the sound high and needy.

Grantaire sucks a bruise on Enjolras’s collarbone as he ruts against him, precome making every slide more slick. Enjolras’s hands are clenched in the sheets, tightening every time Grantaire bites at his neck.

“I’m close, I need--I need,” Enjolras gets out, his moans becoming more persistent. Grantaire gets a hand between them, forming a loose fist around both of them.

Just that is enough to send Grantaire over the edge, and he’s coming with a groan of Enjolras’s name. He strokes them both through his own orgasm, and seconds later, Enjolras is spending in Grantaire’s hand with a choked off moan, white blinding him as he closes his eyelids.

Grantaire exhales shakily, lying down beside Enjolras as the younger boy curls up beside him, humming contentedly.

After a minute of silence, Enjolras whispers, “You love me,” into Grantaire’s skin. Grantaire grins, dissolving into laughter as he throws an arm over his eyes.

“I love you,” Grantaire confirms, pressing a kiss to Enjolras’s forehead. Happiness is clear in every word, his tone conveying the joy he feels.

With a lazy and sated smile, Enjolras brings his lips to Grantaire’s, giving him a lingering kiss. Grantaure picks up his boxers that had been tossed to the floor, using it to wipe his hand off, along with Enjolras’s stomach and chest.

Tossing them to the floor, Grantaire turns back to Enjolras beside him, letting his fingers dance down Enjolras’s side--the slope of his ribs and the dip of his hipbones.

“Move in with me,” Grantaire says. “Not to get away from your family. Move in with me because I want you to,” he tells him, voice soft.

Enjolras sighs, tangling his fingers with Grantaire’s. A wistful expression takes over his face, and he smiles, saying, “Okay.”

 


End file.
